Say Anything
by JauntyChick
Summary: It all started with those damned Post-It Notes on her desk. Greg/OC, please read and review :D
1. Chapter 1

**It All Began With A Post-It Note...**

14th October.

Clover O' Malley smiled as she settled into her black, leather office chair, right behind her overtly large desk. She'd had a fantastic morning; a nice, unbroken sleep, hearty breakfast followed by one of the most delicious cups of coffee that had ever been made _and_ her hair had been perfect all day - bouncy and thick -, her skin was positively glowing _and_ she was fifteen minutes early for work. Ah, bliss. She pressed the '_on_' button on her computer and sat back, steaming hot cup of coffee between her hands. She smiled and waved a hand as the night shift team rolled in to the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Over the eleven - and a quarter - months that she had been working there, Clover had become great friends with all of the team, and she loved them all dearly. Gil Grissom; the unlikely father figure. Catherine Willows, somewhat of a crazy mentalist and then Nick Stokes, Sara Sidle and Warrick Brown - all of which knew her well. Now Greg Sanders, on the other hand, was a different matter. Clover was a bright, gregarious girl of twenty-six and a half, while Greg was nearly six months younger than her, with a certain quality of immaturity and frivolousness that endeared him greatly to Clover. Twelve months beforehand, Clover had been miserable, lonely _and_ unemployed. And then her friend's boyfriend's sister had quit her job as a receptionist in the police department. Happy days for Clover; she roamed into the office of Captain Jim Brass and worked her charm on him. A week later, she began work. The pay was good, the hours were fair, for night-shift - although they hardly left any time for visiting her family, or her friends - and the people seemed delightful enough. Being a natural chatterbox that _loved_ gossip, Clover adapted perfectly with Greg Sanders. They shared several identical opinions; but in other ways, they were chalk and cheese, oil and water. Clover's problems only began when she started seeing Greg in a whole new light. It occurred one evening, perhaps three months earlier, just before she and Greg left the lab, when she had tripped up over her left foot and crashed into the locker. Greg had widened his eyes - not even tempted to laugh - and rushed over to her, a hand placed gently over the small of her back, his eye contact not once breaking, and then he'd pulled her into a hug, sending shivers throughout Clover. Since then, she was sure that she was absolutely, inconceivably, head-over-heels, supremely in love with him. Either that, or it was just a minor crush. Given the way her hand trembled, indiscreetly, she figured that it wasn't the latter. As her shift started, so did theirs. Greg, the expert of DNA, was always the first to roll in.

"Hey! Clover!" Uh-oh. Greg, with a mass of spikes atop his head, flashed her a billion-watt smile and managed a quick wave as he sauntered up to her desk.

As always, the familiar trembling returned with a vengeance. Clover smiled and stood up, handing Greg a few notes from several of the day-shift CSIs that may or may not have required his help. "Hello, Greg." Clover had been blessed with a rare, deep voice for a female, husky and slightly haunting and, of course, _majorly_ attractive.

"Ooh." Greg eyed up a folded-up A4 sheet with a mischievous glance, before his eyes settled on Clover. It seemed that she wasn't the only one that enjoyed their time together. He thought Clover was fabulous; she was voluptuous, only five inches shorter than him with auburn hair that shone a deep, rusty red in the light, one side of her forehead taken up by a fringe that fell directly into her left eye. Everything about her was natural and incredible; her smile, her laugh, her sense of humour, the way she spoke, her infallible femininity, amongst other things, none of which he was counting, of course. "May I say you're looking fine this evening..."

Oh, Greg. Always the charmer. With some of the things he came away with, Clover figured he had always harbored hidden depths, romantic ones, at that. Still, she had to try her best not to publicise her now violently red ears, and her shaky-knees. "This I know. But it's always nice to hear."

Greg glanced at her coffee cup and nodded. "Blue Hawaiian?"

"Nope. Some other stuff, bought it for a dollar in that place across the street. Pretty nasty, actually." Clover frowned into the cup and set it down beside her mouse. Greg tutted.

"How many times, Clover, do I have to remind you that you have my full permission-"

"To purloin your stash at any time, I know. I _know_. If I want some, Greg, I'll ask you. Thank you." Clover sighed and smiled to the new Trace technician that had just appeared in front of her, handing over some notes and files. She turned back to Greg and bit her lip. "Can I help you, by the way? Or are you gonna block my station all night?"

Greg thought for a second, eyebrows raised. Then he shrugged. "Consider me gone." And then he was, literally, gone in the flash of an eye off to the lab, which she could _almost_ see from her station. The door, at least, was in perfect view, occasionally giving her a small glimpses of certain unbelievably handsome lab-rats. Clover grinned to herself and then shook her head. Soon enough, Sara Sidle and Warrick Brown came up to the desk, their usual civil-selves, not really engaging in heavy conversation. Nick Stokes was always the last one in, and always over-accentuated his Texan drawl around her. Clover typed away and answered the phone for three hours straight, as she did every evening, almost like clockwork. Then she took her break, again, as she always did.

**XOX**

When she arrived back at her desk, Clover immediately knew something was up. She had two younger sisters; she knew when people had been through her things. She plopped down onto the seat, tapped her fingers against the desk and bit her lip. Aha...Eureka...? It was a post-it note, right there, stuck onto her keyboard. Clover picked it up and surveyed it.

_Want: 1; Need. 2; Longing. 3; To Lack. 4; To Want. 5; To Desire._

What?! What did it mean? Clover, completely perplexed, wasn't sure what to do, nor was she sure about _why_ it had landed on _her_ desk. It was odd, and it was freaky, but she chose to ignore it, crumpling it up and flinging it into the wastebasket. It was only forty minutes later that she frantically dashed down under the desk, rummaged around in the bin and un-crumpled it just so as she could re-read it. Was it a hidden message? Who or _what_ did this person want? _Who_...

Clover gasped, quietly. It was a love-note. It _had_ to be. Silently, she gushed to herself. She'd never had anyone courting or pursuing her before. Frankly, she loved it. It was exciting. It was fun. Then she looked up to see Sara Sidle giving her a strange look. Oh! She'd been sitting on the ground, _grinning_ at the notelet. Quickly, she scrambled up to her feet and tucked a loose strand of currently-dark-brown hair behind an ear. "Hello, Sara!"

"Hi, uh, Clover...everything okay?" Sara shot her an amused look and eyed up the offending Post-It with caution.

Clover nodded, eagerly. "Yes. Definitely. Everything's great..."

Sara arched an eyebrow, but didn't push any further with the conversation. "Uh, okay...have you got any messages for me?"

Clover glanced in her notebook. "Uh...yes. Juliet Cramer wants you to call her on this," she ripped out a tiny fragment of paper and handed it to Sara. "Number here and Hank, um...Pettigrew? Yeah, he says he's worried about you. You're not answering your cell, Sara...bad times." She tilted her head to the side and lowered her bottom lip.

Sara swallowed and smiled, nervously. She didn't like people teasing her about her personal life, or lack there of. It wasn't her fault that she was permanently busy! "Okay, thanks."

Just as Sara was about to walk away, Clover halted her. "Hey, Sara?"

"Yeah?" Sara _just_ managed to be civil. She hadn't had a good day from start to finish. She hated her neighbour, she loathed the fact that while Greg Sanders could sleep, easily, all through his weekend, _she_ had to work. Overtime, if you don't mind. It was just one more thing to frown about and, at this rate, with all the frowning she'd been doing, Sara would end up looking like a shriveled-up prune by the time she was forty-five. It was a damn good job that she was a workaholic.

Clover glanced down at the message...she raised her eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek. Sara would more than likely laugh about the note...and did Clover really want word getting out that she had a stalker? "Oh...nothing. Nevermind. See you." With that, Sara frowned - again - and walked off. Clover looked once more at the note and, after pondering whether she should crumple it up again, folded it neatly and shoved it into her drawer.

**XOX**

A week later, Clover had received six more yellow Post-It notes, all hidden in her drawer, all containing random words that somehow ended up meaning the one thing; **Desire**. Someone desired _her_. But the words seemed to be getting much more serious. It started from want, to need, desire, passion, adoration and so forth. Clover, too, had gone from being flattered, flustered and now she was slightly freaked out about the whole thing. The notes all seemed to appear, magically, when she came back from her break. Clover had been trying her best to investigate, but it only ended up leaving her frustrated and at a dead-end. She just wished she knew who was sending her these notes. One thing was for sure; it was a member of the night-shift. She now had to look through Gil Grissom's team, Jack Henley's team and Caroline Raftan's team. Clover opened the door to her apartment and sighed. She quickly sauntered in and shut it behind her, knowing that she would immediately be greeted by Houdini, the cat, as she was every evening before her dinner. Or was it breakfast?

"Hey, Hoodie." She bent down and petted the pleasantly-plump, all-grey beast that happened to resemble a teddy-bear more than a cat, with an unfortunate crumpled ear. The cat purred as it rubbed itself against Clover's leg. "Whoa, hey, hair, Houdini, don't get it on my trousers, okay? Not until I get changed. Good boy." She ambled past the cat, into the living room where she flicked her TV on for background noise, and walked into her bedroom, dumping her handbag on the floor beside her bedside cabinet before she flopped down onto the edge of the double-sized bed and kicked her shoes off. Then came the trousers, and the blouse. She pulled on a loose, white tank-top and a pair of baggy, black bottoms, topping it off with bright pink, leopard-print slippers. She removed her eyeliner, tied her hair up in a tight clasp and headed towards the kitchen where she quickly produced a tin of cat-food and plopped it into a bowl for Houdini, rubbing a finger behind his ear as she made to stand up. She washed her hands, threw a ready-made macaroni n' cheese dinner into the microwave and leant against the counter. It was then that a question popped into her head:

Who on God's green earth would desire _her_? She had just spent ten, dull, menial minutes of her life feeding herself and her cat and now she looked as though she had been dragged through a thorny-bush, backwards, so it was a perfectly legitimate question. The microwave pinged and not even two minutes later, Clover was on her couch, blanket wrapped around her lower half, watching some random infomercial.

Half an hour after that, she gave in and fell asleep, Houdini lying on her stomach, remote clutched in her hand in the most desirable manner possible.

**XOX**

Greg Sanders rolled into the LVPD at his usual time, flirted with as many people as he could and then popped in to his lab, waiting patiently for eight-thirty-seven. At eight-thirty-seven, every night, Clover O' Malley went on a break. At eight-thirty-eight, Greg snuck out of his lab and left a post-it note somewhere that he knew she would find it. Tonight, he would leave it poking out from under her keyboard. He knew she had been going crazy, interrogating every night-shift worker that had the indecency and the audacity to lurk around her station. _He_ was smart. _He_ stayed away, only ever bumping in to her in the break room, or the locker room. Thankfully, or rather, _unfortunately_, she hadn't suspected him. He was going to give it a few more days and then he'd start setting little traps for her. Oh, yes, he _was _a genius. He walked up to the door of his lab and watched as Clover sat down at her desk and arched her eyebrow before she picked up the note.

It had been a daring move, especially for a mere, lower-rank lab-rat like himself, but the book he'd been reading said that the results would be well worth it.

Oh, Greg hoped. He really, really hoped.

**XOX**

"Richard Jones called, he wants you to call him back immediately, Sarah Llewellyn - I think she might be British, by the way - says she has some information regarding a case from three years ago that you and your team didn't bother your asses about...her words, not mine, and, uh, could I speak with you, privately, please? It'll only take a moment." Clover was stood in front of Gil Grissom's desk, hovering over it with some suspicious notes in her hand. Grissom was already reading through his own messages, of which there were far too many for a supervisor, in his opinion.

Grissom glanced up and removed his glasses. "Of course, Clover. Take a seat."

Clover sat, reluctantly, and tapped the offending post-it notes against the table. She cleared her throat. "Well...these here things," She handed him the notes and folded her arms. "Have been the bane of my existence for, uh, about two weeks now, and, frankly, they're kinda starting to get to me. I don't know _who_ is sending them to me, but I think it's someone on the night-shift." Clover sighed, heavily, after saying everything in one, hurried sentence without a breath.

Grissom glanced through the notes, one eyebrow raised. He was stone-cold silent for a few moments before he brought his index finger up to his lip, thinking deeply. Clover frowned to herself. How long did the man need before he could say something to her? All she wanted was a tiny bit of reassurance. Finally, he spoke. "You have no idea who might be sending these to you?"

Oh, good Lord. "No, Sir. I haven't a clue."

Grissom pursed his lips. "Hm."

Oh, this was no use, Clover decided. She stood up and picked up her notes. "But I'm sure there isn't anything to worry about. Probably just some technician or other playing a trick on me. You know how they get, cooped up all day." She shook her head, nervously backing out of the room. Grissom only nodded.

"You could be right, Clover...but if this thing persists, you come get me, okay?" Grissom was almost like her father in the way he protected his team, his little family away from home. She momentarily wondered about his family, whether or not he had one, or if he even had the time for one. She nodded and started out of the door and back to her desk. Of _course_ there was a new note. There just had to be! She flopped down on her chair and read it slowly.

'_Go to the break room. Look under the coffee machine.' _

So she did. She shot right back up out of her chair, not even caring if the phone rang constantly whilst she was gone, and found herself in the break room a few moments later. As she ran over to the coffee machine, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. There were two CSIs in the room, maybe even a technician, but Clover didn't pay any attention to them. Only the note _under_ the coffee machine, exactly were Mr. Post-It Note-Guy had told her to look. It was a number, presumably his, and a hurriedly scribbled down, _'Call Me'_. Clover arched her eyebrow, stuffed the note into the her pocket and made a mental note to ring the number later on from a phone that most definitely _didn't_ belong to her.

**XOX**

Greg paced the floor of the lab, near the end of his shift; he shouldn't have done that. He'd probably both scared Clover half to death _and _committed a felony all at once, and he really wished that he hadn't. He flopped down on the hole-ridden old chair in front of the GCMS machine and sighed, heavily. He was beginning to think that the book had lied to him, in a major way. He should probably come clean, give up while he was still ahead. He'd seen Clover angry before; maybe less than half-a-dozen times...but it wasn't very pleasant. She'd slammed things, scowled and then smacked her hand against her forehead and told Greg that she was _very_ busy and could he please, _please_, come back when she wasn't as annoyed. He stood up and sauntered over to the door, about to open it when his cell-phone rang.

**XOX**

"Hello?" Clover swallowed. She definitely knew that voice. Even though it was one word, she _knew_ it. But she wasn't going to reply. "Hello?" The voice extended his 'o', and she knew that she had definitely heard it before. Somewhere. It was a CSI...no, it wasn't, it was...no, no use. She didn't have enough evidence to back it up. "Uh, is this Clover O' Malley?" Was that...Greg _Sanders?_ He cleared his throat. "If it is, I'm sorry for the notes...it was just a-a...minor...shortage in brain power and thinking...and I'm sorry if I offended you..." There was a pause. "Look, if you want to talk, I'll be in the locker room. For ten minutes. _If_ you want to talk. If you, don't, that's fine, _great_, but...okay. I'm going now. Bye..."

He hung up, and Clover smiled to herself, knowing exactly what she had to do.

**XOX**

Greg pouted slightly as he flicked through some God-awful women's magazine that he'd found in the locker room. Each time he heard footsteps that could only belong to a female wearing very high-heeled shoes, as Clover always did, he almost jumped up out of the chair only to find extreme disappointment. He scanned an article to do with the ongoing battle for women to become a size zero - Greg thought this was twaddle, women were supposed to have meat on them...it just added something extra and nice to hold onto - , when he was cut off once more by the heels. This time, he didn't bother going to check. He didn't get up and he didn't really care who it was.

"Hi, Greg." Clover was leaning against a locker, arms folded, one foot entangled with the other, very light smile across her full lips. Greg swivelled round in his seat, hair a short, spiky mess, eyebrows raised and mouth contorted into an 'O' of shock. Clover untangled each of her limbs and slowly, promiscuously, crossed the room to sit in front of Greg, lifting one leg over the bench and plopping herself down onto it.

"Hey, Clover...so...you got my notes, huh?" Greg smiled, deciding that he'd be better to try and charm her as opposed to groveling. Did girls even like groveling anymore?

Clover tilted her head, thoughtfully. "Yes, I did, Gregory. They were kinda..."

"Cool? Effective?" Greg smiled, his mouth leaning more to one side than to other. Clover fought not to laugh at him. She had to admit it, even though she wasn't expecting it, she was more than pleased that it was Greg Sanders that had sent her the notes in lieu of someone else. Ecstastical, even. Enraptured. All good things, starting with 'E'.

"A mix, I'd say, between genius and risque." She examined the bench between her legs, one finger trailing over the edge of it, _just_ missing the gorgeous smile attached to Greg's face. "So..." Clover had only just noticed her heart suddenly beating at five-thousand miles per hour. "You, um, _want_ me?"

Greg's smile faltered. He considered this for a few moments. Yes, he _did_ want Clover. But probably not in the way _she_ thought. He wanted her for more than one night...he wanted her for years, not hours. He held up one defensive hand, indignantly. "No, Clover-"

"It's okay, Greg. I get it. You like me, I like you..." Clover grinned, wildly. She scooted forward a couple more inches, leaving barely a foot of distance between herself and Greg. "If you want me..." She picked Greg's hand up from where it had been perched on his knee an examined it, running a random index finger over it. "I guess...you've got me." Her eyes settled on his and, for a split-second - in which Greg almost collapsed from the pleasure of Clover's touch _and_ her gaze -, she considered kissing him. But then she smirked, scooted back and stood up, kicking one leg up and over the bench, coming to meet the other one.

"But, you said..." Greg was dumbfounded. Honestly, he'd never had a more perplexing day in his life. First, Clover hadn't reacted badly to his madness and secondly, she had told him he could have her...and now she stands up? What a confusing, but incredible, creature.

Clover placed a hand on her hip and bit her lower lip. "_But_...you're gonna have to take me out first. Breakfast? Or coffee? Your choice..._actually_," She considered something for a second before she held her index finger up. "I have to feed my cat, but...I'm free any other night..." She started for the door, until Greg finally got off his ass and caught up with her. He placed a hand on her arm and made _sure_ she was looking at him.

"Whoa, up, there...you mean...you'll go out with me?" His eyebrows shot up. Clover nodded. "And you're not mad at me for _stalking_ you?" A smile and a shake of the head.

"No. And stop acting like you're so surprised. It's not winning you any points." Clover folded her arms, mockingly, and leant forward, planting a single, feather-light kiss to his cheek. Currently, at that very nanosecond, Greg couldn't win any more points in her estimation. "I'll see you, Greg." She winked at him and turned on her heel, out of the door. Greg sighed, contentedly, and walked up to the door, punching the air with a silent 'yes!'.

Like Mick Jagger had once said, you can't always get what you want.

But Greg did. And so did Clover.

**A/N: Hola!**

**Hope ya'll enjoyed it. I got the idea off of the CSI 100 prompts on livejournal. Greg's a bit on the majorly geeky side, I think, but that **_**is**_** why we love him! I can **_**definitely **_**see him punching the air...Oooh, and Clover O' Malley is the character from my Underneath It All, but I've just decided I'll use her for this, cause I didn't rightly like the way she was progressing in the other fic. **

**Oh, and I used 'in lieu' cause I was watching 'My Girl' - love that movie! - and Dan Akroyd wrote it, and I stole it, so there, so ha!**

**It's just gonna be a series of one-shots posted in the one fic, instead of a serial, so not too much angst - woot! - and updates will not be the best, cause I'm an independent chick now with a job - squee! - ...but if anyone has any requests, PM me - or review! - and I'll see what I can do with it and I PROMISE it'll get better!**

**Please leave me a review, or put me on author/story alert and I will be forever indebted to you!**

**Have a brilliant day, **

**Mary-Louise**

**PS: Right, I LOVE John Cusack, and I couldn't come up with a decent title for **_**beans**_**. So, I did a wee bit of research, and Say Anything was a pretty decent film, and I LOVED that one wee line 'I Gave Her My Heart, She Gave Me Her Pen." It was class! Plus, it was that or Weird Science, which I haven't ever seen, so squee...**

**Ooh, and I don't own CSI, or any of the characters that aren't Clover. :D **


	2. Chapter 2

**Number Two: **WARNING: Filler chapter, not a lot happens, LOL. Will get better. 

Clover frowned as she swivelled in her seat. Imogen, the scary day-shift receptionist, was hovering over her with a disapproving face. Clover smiled, nervously, and stood up, leaving the seat completely free for her colleague. Imogen flopped down onto the chair and cleared her throat, sharply. Clover knew Imogen wasn't her biggest fan, ever since Clover accidentally walked into Imogen, spilling volcanic amounts of coffee over her. Since then, they were best enemies. Imogen was the kind of woman that did everything, but sweep the floor with a broom up her rectum. Clover, however, preferred to take the easier route in life, approaching everything with a laid back, calm and efficient manner that won her a _lot_ of points with the night-shift team.

"Look, I'll be out of your hair in about five minutes." If Greg Sanders bothered to show his face. Their first 'date' hadn't gone fantastically well; the chat was great, they really liked each other, but Greg got called back into the lab after the other lab-rat was taken ill. Henceforth, Clover was left all on her own at a diner in the middle of the day. It wasn't exactly likely that anything would've gone fantastically well, anyway, after Greg had spent nearly two whole days cooped up in the lab. He was not his usual, enthusiastical self, but a tired, laid-back Sanders that let Clover do most of the talking. Being a lab technician seemed to be much more difficult that Clover originally figured.

Imogen glared up. "I believe you." Cold, curt, and extremely icy. It almost sent shivers up Clover's spine.

"Mm." Clover folded her arms and leant against the desk. The place was packed, completely, with people, walking around, talking, arguing- God knows what else. Clover _loved_ it. People intrigued her; they always had. She remembered being twelve and booking a place on a tour bus with forty-nine other people that ran for four hours without a break, getting to sit next to Jack, a fifty-five year old man with a sarcastic, yet very philosophical, nature. Her mother had _not _been pleased. Clover cast her eyes this way and that, looking for Greg. She glanced at her watch. Five more minutes and then she was going home. As soon as the thought struck her, Greg seemed to appear from nowhere at the desk, hair spiked up to an unreasonably tall height - at least two inches! - and a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat. "Hey, Greg!" Clover could barely contain her excitement, and it _almost_ showed through. Imogen glanced up, sighed and rolled her eyes at Greg's appearance.

Greg momentarily furrowed his eyebrows, caught slightly off guard by Clover's merriment. He quickly regained his composure, however, as he studied her. She'd dressed casually, with a deep-green, low-cut, round-neck sleeveless top with inbuilt beads - that Greg would have to remember to take a closer look at later -, that showed off two pristine-white bra-straps and added a regular pair of jeans that fitter her perfectly. Her hair, as always, framed her face perfectly, clipped up, effortlessly. "Hey, Clover...you look fantastic." This was met with another sardonic eye-roll from Imogen. The woman had no romance in her life, Greg decided. Clover blushed, and bobbed her head from side to side. "You ready?"

Clover glanced down at Imogen and then back up at Greg. "Yeah...lead the way." She smiled and Greg walked forward, taking a gentle hold of her upper arm as she walked next to him. It was a nice touch, slightly warm and comforting. Clover decided that she could definitely get used to this. "So, may I ask where you're taking me? Or is it a surprise?"

Greg shrugged, opening the front door for her, proud of his gentlemanliness. This time, he had taken advice from Nick Stokes, as opposed to a book. Nick, after all, had far more experience than Greg ever would. Greg could never be considered a player. "All in due course, m'dear." He ushered her over to his car, again, opening the door for her, and hopped into his own seat. "So...you never told me what kind of music you're into..." Always the best way to start off a conversation. He started the car and quickly put the car into motion.

"Um..." Clover glanced at her hand. "Anything, really, as long as it's good. Oh, but I do like kind of, big-band stuff. That comes from when I was a showgirl. Brings back good memories, all that jazz." She explained, nonchalantly, with a very large smile.

Greg turned to her, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Really? You were a showgirl?"

"Mmhm. I was a damn good one, too. I was only one of two girls in my lineup who could do the splits, properly, without once complaining. And I can put my leg right up in a, uh, straight...line, nearly over my...head..." She bit her lip. Maybe that was a little bit too much information to share on a first date.

"Really?" Greg smiled to himself, suddenly developing a very nice, very unexpected, mental image. "You'll have to show me sometime." Whoa. That slipped out before he could've stopped himself. Nick had told him to be himself, but a reserved, less-outrageously-flirty version of himself. Not even five minutes in and already he'd stepped over that line.

Clover grinned, liking Greg's brazenness. Usually, whenever someone of the male persuasion was as suggestive to her, she was utterly repulsed. It was the same when a man's eyes lingered for too long over her body. When Greg did it, she couldn't have cared less. In fact, she positively lounged in the glory of it. "Maybe I will." They chatted, admirably for a short while; Clover told Greg a little bit more about her days as a showgirl, while Greg explained to her about DNA, it's many uses and just _how_ fascinating it could be. Half of it went over her head, but she enjoyed just listening to him, the deep - only occasionally surprisingly high-pitched -, solid timbre of his voice sending goosebumps down her arms whenever he leant in to whisper something to her, as though it were a deep, sordid secret that shouldn't ever be spoken of. Eventually, Greg pulled up into a tiny, oddly-shaped diner with three other cars outside it. All that driving, for this place. Clover wasn't sure what to think.

"Don't worry; it's cool on the inside." Greg offered her a lopsided smile. She nodded and opened her door. The view that greeted her was pleasantly...nice. It was retro, completely, almost like something out of a 1950s noir flick, chock-a-block full of gangsters and their femme fatales. Clover smiled and glanced over at the desk that they were moving rapidly towards. It was a very tall man, dark hair, sparklingly bright, blue eyes in a dark, foreboding suit that greeted them.

"Good evening, Sir. I'm Glen. Have you got a reservation?" Glen smiled, cheerily. Clover liked the way, even though he was a receptionist, he had introduced himself. The world would've been a better place if people told her their names. This was just a delightful little place, all told.

"Uh, yeah, Sanders...Greg Sanders." Greg began hoking around in his back pocket for a small piece of paper, before handing it to Glen. Glen nodded, typed a few things into his computer and pointed to a table in the middle of the room, overlooking everything, really. Greg thanked him and placed his hand on the small of Clover's back, ushering her over to the table. She fought off a smile, but couldn't do anything to stop the crimson in her ears. She thanked the Lord that she had thick hair to cover said aural appendages.

"Greg! Why have you been hiding this place from me? It's fantastic." Clover tugged her jacket off as soon as she sat down and let it rest where it fell. Greg smiled.

"You never asked to come with me." Greg had been coming here for a while now, but hadn't ever enjoyed sitting on his own. _This_, however, tiny cocoon of a table, Clover sat in front of him, lovely as always, was definitely much better. Fantastic, in fact. He shuffled around for a few seconds before Glen returned with the menu. One menu. Typical. Greg, being the utter gentleman that he was, handed it to Clover with a broad smile.

"Thanks." Clover snatched it from him, almost ready to eat her own shoe. She'd been starving herself since breakfast for this. There had better be meat, preferably a lot of it.

"So...uh, what do you do? I mean, in your spare time, cause I already know what you...do..." Greg frowned at himself. Nick, again, had told him not to fall into his usual habit of inane psycho-babble. Greg had scoffed. As _if _he would do that.

Clover looked up at him from behind the menu and grinned. "Uh, well, I...watch a lot of movies, read a lot of books...and...no. That's it. Very dull, unexciting girl, I'm afraid. You'd probably be better off with Imogen. I _swear_ she has a secret life, Greg. She comes in, looking like she's spent the last ten years of her life sleeping like a baby, smelling like roses, smiling, _then_ she sits down and all Hell breaks loose. She doesn't speak, doesn't do eye contact, doesn't seem to have a personality. Nada. But she does get text messages. _Lots_ of text messages. And she takes more personal days than she should. She went on a week's holiday to Rio when she said she had a gastric flu. Although, don't tell anyone that I told you. Maybe she's in the CIA, I don't know."

Greg laughed. Nobody had ever had as much to say about Imogen before. Clover, on the other hand, was held up on a pedestal. "Huh. She sounds like a bundle of fun. And what do you mean, 'dull'? You're not dull." He sounded almost appalled at the notion. Clover laughed.

"No, I am, really. Twenty-six-and-three-quarter years of peace...and then I met you." She seemed to like reminding Greg that she had those five little months extra that he hadn't experienced, and he seemed to like being reminded.

"But you were a showgirl. You told me all about that...leg stuff. I don't know _anybody_ that can do that." Good, God, she still had the menu. He was going to starve! Sure, he enjoyed watching her look everything through, but this was not the time for indecision. He hadn't eaten all day. He needed something substantial.

"Stop soothing my ego." She smiled, handing him the menu. "I'm having the roast chicken, I think." Greg nodded, opening up the menu and letting his eyes dart from one foodstuff to the next. Clover examined him with a light smile. "You're cute when you're hungry, Greg." She _had_ noticed his eagerness to get the menu, and that was precisely why she had taken to long to pick something.

He glanced up and smiled. "Why thank you. And you told _me_ to stop soothing _your_ ego. Ha." He began drumming his fingers against the table. Clover arched her eyebrow at his weirdness. She was beginning to really, really like it. A lot more than she should. "Okay. Rack. Of. Lamb. Oh, yeah. Uh, you like wine, Clover?" Girls liked red wine, Greg knew. _Always_ go with the red wine.

"Oh, yes. White, though, red's kinda foosty." Oh. That was a turn up for the books. Never again was Greg going to listen to Nick Stokes.

"I concur." Greg nodded, conversationally. Now that the whole ordering-ordeal was over, he could take it a little bit easier, focus all his attentions on Clover. Food was only a passing thought when she was next to him; she was _that_ good.

"You concur?" Clover giggled. "Jeez, I can just picture you in one of those little British caps with a golf stick in one hand and a pipe in the other. I have relatives like that. My cousin, Cherie, and her husband...Marc, I think. He's a hot-shot entrepreneur kinda guy. She's agoraphobic, though..." She shook her head, realizing that she was babbling on incoherently. "You got any funny relatives?"

Greg nodded, eagerly. "My grandpa, he's fantastic. Seventy-three, married with five kids. He got kicked out of Norway for getting my grandmother pregnant before they were married. To this day, he still tells me, 'som man reder, sa ligger man'."

Clover stared at him, unsure whether she should even ask or not. "Um..."

"It means, 'one must lie in the bed one has made'."

"Oh. I learn something new every day."

"Yeah, he's very wise, so..." Greg opened up the menu again, scanning the dessert page. Some had called him greedy. He insisted that he just had a hearty appetite.

Clover grinned, finding that story a little bit too romantic, all things considered. "Huh. I like that. All those old romantic stories just get to me." She shook her head, a sudden chill coming over her. "My dad sent my mom a flower every day for a year so as she would go out with him. When she eventually said yes, he was in the middle of courting Laura Simmons. My mom was _not_ pleased and insisted that Laura leave him alone, or else. Actually, that doesn't sound at all romantic..." She trailed off, eyebrows knitted in confusion. Greg was about to go off on one about his own parents, when a waitress came over. She took their order and left them in peace for a while. Clover told Greg more about her family - two other sisters, one brother, no other men in her house except for her father - and listened intently as Greg told her more of Papa Olaf's infamous stories. As they ate, they still chatted. It wasn't really a date, it was more like a random meeting, trying to get to know one another, sharing their likes and dislikes, letting their chemistry do all the work. It was fantastic. There was no pressure from one on the other one, no awkward silences, no strings. Neither of them could be happier about how the evening was turning out. They joked, flirted, everything. When they had finished, Clover decided they were going for a quick drive, considering she'd witnessed the scenery on their way to the diner, and wanted to see it much closer. Greg, feeling a new sense of responsibility for Clover, let her have his jacket and made sure to hold her hand all the way over to the car. "You don't have to hold onto me, you know. I'm a big girl, I can fend for myself."

"I know!" Greg raised his eyebrows. "I just wanna make sure you don't get abducted or anything. I _do_ work in a crime lab, you know."

"So do I." Clover smiled. Greg started the car and began at a gentle enough speed, too full to hit the legal limit, contentment settling around the two of them as they drove along quietly for a few moments. The silence didn't last long, though. "You scared of anything, Greg?"

Greg frowned and shrugged. "Not that I know of..." He could think on several things, none of which he would admit; not to a girl. He didn't like the complete dark, for one, and never in his life would he ever go near a snake.

"Hm. What about allergies?" As previously stated, Clover was a people-person. She liked to know everything. _Everything_.

"Uh...no. I had chickenpox, though, when I was eight, my great grandma suffered from polio, and I _think_ my grandma was missing two toes. Anything else?" Greg was feeling rather proud of his oddness.

"How'd she lose _two_ toes?" One was a coincidence. Two was...strange; an inordinate amount of missing toes.

"Frostbite. She always said her principals came before anything, and that was how she lost her toes. Don't ask me what it was about." Greg shrugged the thought away. "What are your sisters like?" She hadn't had a chance to finish telling him earlier; the waitress had stomped over to the table with their food and a very displeased manner.

"Well, there's Carole, she's nearly a year younger than me, she's a cook, and she's married to Bob, he's a solicitor and they've got two kids, Robbie and Caitlin. Twins. Then there's Becky, she's eight years younger than me and she's not really very wise...she likes boys and shoes and that's about it, but she's harmless. And...my brother's Freddie, he's the baby of the family and we're really kinda close. He's into music, and films, and books, and you can tell him anything. See, I was more of a tomboy, so I hung out with him and my dad instead of Carole and Becky." She could almost write a book about sibling rivalry. "I take it you don't have any brothers or sisters."

Greg quickly shook his head. "No...my, uh, my mom wanted two girls and two boys but...all she got was me." He didn't sound overtly happy about it. "She was very overprotective. If I so much as got a nosebleed, she'd take me to the ER. But she's really nice, though. Amazing cook. She and my dad are polar opposites, though. He's kinda free-living and really likes taking it easy. My mom's...well, she's my mom." She, though, hadn't wanted him to settle down, which was surprising.

"Oh. Well...at least she hit the jackpot with you." She could sense that Greg had suffered a hard time with his mother, and she really did want to drag anything out on the first date. Humour was always a brilliant technique to diffuse an unpleasant situation. Thankfully, Greg gave a small laugh and nodded. "So, what were you like at school?"

Greg shrugged, pausing to let out a few impatient drivers. He grinned to himself. "I was captain of the high school chess squad."

Clover giggled. "Say no more." Before she could say anything else on the subject, and all too soon, they were back at the lab. Clover could plainly see her car; old, rusty and dirty. And black. Clover hated black. "Oh. We're here." She felt - and sounded - thoroughly disappointed. Greg parked his car next to Clover's and turned to her with a smile.

"Okay-"

"Greg, I had a fantastic time." She placed her hand on his knee and grinned.

"Yeah, me, too." Oho, yes. Here they were, inches away from each other, love - or something akin to it, Greg fervently chose to believe - floating around in the air, Clover's hand unashamedly resting near his thigh. This was definitely going to end with a kiss.

Clover tilted her head to the side and examined her nails. "So, I'll see you tomorrow and we'll do this again? Maybe Saturday?" She shifted and opened her door, swinging her legs gracefully out onto the damp tarmac. Greg couldn't believe it. He was stunned.

"I-uh-yeah! Definitely. Night, Clover." He placed his hand on the steering wheel. What else could he do?

Clover smiled and blew him a kiss. "Goodnight, Greggo." And then she slammed the door, taking two steps to her own car, a certain spring in her step, a je-ne-sais-qui that stayed with her long throughout the night. She got into her car, turned it - and the radio - on and drove off with a wave and a honk of her horn.

Greg sighed contentedly and turned his ignition back on before speeding back to his own place.

**A/N: Hola!**

**Wow. I did **_**not**_** expect to get so many reviews, but I'm very pleased :D Thank you SO much to everyone who did review, I really appreciate it!**

**I'm not a huge fan of filler chapters...they're just kinda...meh. But the next one was thoroughly plotted, and my writing style seems to constantly change from really fluffy and incoherent to semi-intelligent, LOL! Very strange, but I love it. **

**Please read and review, and I'll post the next chapter just as soon as I get five more reviews...:D**

**Have a great rest of the evening,**

**Mary-Lou**

**XOX**


	3. Chapter 3

**It was only a kiss...**

Kissing was something decidedly important in a relationship, no matter how big or small, frantic or relaxed, important or not- it had to be done. Preferably by the second or third date - if not the first, depending on chemistry. So far, in Greg and Clover's relationship, it hadn't happened yet, although they were practically exploding with chemistry. They were now onto date number five: Nada. Sure, Greg could crack all the jokes he could think of, Clover could smile, laugh at him, hug him, whatever, but lips were fated never to touch. Greg walked her to her door, leant in, only to find her torso pushed up against his and her arms around him. Now, this wasn't something he could complain about...he loved it, really. But he definitely wanted something else, and he was beginning to wonder whether or not Clover actually liked him, found him attractive, or even pondered about kissing him.

It was hopeless. Utterly, incomprehensibly, ridiculously hopeless. And worrying. Now, they were sitting next to each other in the cinema, Clover resting her head on Greg's shoulder, sighing contentedly. Whilst that was very nice, and rather comforting, Greg just wanted that extra dash of intimacy. All he had to do was catch Clover by surprise. That was it. The rest of his viewing experience was spent trying to concoct a cunning plan. And then he had it. He put an arm around Clover's shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She glanced up and grinned at him, returning back to the screen a few seconds later.

Now, Greg Sanders was a secure man, by Jove, he was, but this was unsettling. He thoroughly adored Clover, the ground she walked on and he thought she was better than sliced bread.

And so, after leaving the cinema, Greg decided to play it cool. They chatted, Clover got out of the car, winked at Greg and sauntered over to her door, not letting Greg see her grinning foolishly to herself. Again, Greg felt as though he'd been punched in the gut.

About two nights later, they were settled neatly beside one another on Clover's sofa, watching the TV, one head rested against the other's chest, when Greg couldn't take any more of this mindless torture. Clover was clad in a plain, white tank top with spaghetti straps that made the occasional appearance from under her red cardigan, and a pair of oversized jeans, her reddish hair pulled into a clip, not a sign of makeup on her face. She sighed, yawned, reached over for the remote - all while doing it elegantly and managing to stay effortlessly attractive. Her shoulder came into brief contact with his forearm and suddenly he snapped.

"Do you hate me?" He pushed her forward slightly and turned to face her. She furrowed her eyebrows at the movement, but quickly crossed her legs and stared Greg in the eyes, all the while smiling amusedly. He'd been strangely quiet for the last half an hour or so, which was unnatural. Clover rolled up the sleeves on her cardigan and shook a stray lock of her out of her face.

"Of course I don't hate you. I really like you, actually, otherwise I wouldn't let you put your feet on my table." This was a lie. She had never been bothered by people having their feet up on her table. Clover sat back and let her eyes rest on those few small freckles on his cheek. A girl could easily be won over by those freckles, and those freckles alone.

Greg had been fighting this colossal war in his head for days...his bottle couldn't crash now. He glanced around the room, swallowed and then dared a look at Clover. "Then why can't I kiss you?"

Clover grinned and folded her arms, a minuscule laugh escaping her ample lips. "Ohh, I get it. My little plan finally worked, huh?"

Greg turned deadly serious. "What plan?"

"The plan where I see just _how _forward you are. See, in the months I've known you, I always thought you were confident, cocky and _egregiously _full of bravado, which I really loved about you. But," She smirked, glad that she'd somehow inveigled the word 'love' - as opposed to plain old 'like' - into the conversation. "I wondered just how long it would take...for _you _to make the first move...and then I concocted a way to make you wait; if I kinda pulled away when you put your arm around me then I figured that maybe _that _would put paid to your, ah, intentions. I thought _I_ wouldn't have been able to hold back from kissing _you_, and I know I'm probably not the most irresistible, but I didn't think _you_ would do as well as this. Congratulations. Nearly two weeks." She extended her hand in a mock-handshake. Greg wasn't sure what to do. He stared at her hand and tilted his head to the side.

For the first time in his twenty-six years, he was stumped. For one thing, he admired Clover for being such a smart-ass, and he was also confused as to why he _had_ held back for so long, even though Clover and her lips had plagued his thoughts constantly. This, he decided, was a strange feeling. He took Clover's hand and grinned. "You...tricked me. But I'm...not...sure...what to say...I guess I'm speechless." He glanced down at her and his expression immediately changed. It went from one of mild confusion and disbelief to one of unabashed affection. Clover almost melted against the sofa. "So...can I kiss you now?"

Clover made a move towards him, placed her hand on his cheek and bit her lower lip. "Mm...no." She should see Greg about to question her, so she immediately bolted up from the sofa and bounded over to the other end of the room. "Cause you'll have to get to me first." Such a childish, yet effective way of annoying someone. She ran out of the room, into several other rooms until a few minutes later, which found Greg and Clover in the kitchen, each on opposite sides of the island. Clover noticed that she seemed to have forgotten the correct way to breathe. "Ready to give up yet?"

"Nuh-uh." Greg suppressed a smile, equally as out-of-breath as Clover. "You?"

"For a kiss? No way." She pulled her cardigan off and flung it onto the counter. Before Greg knew it, she was on her way down the short, brightly-coloured hall. Greg flew after her and eventually caught her in the bathroom, sitting on the bath. He sighed, heftily, and shut the door behind him. "You found me."

"That I did." Oh, God, he sounded like a pirate. Clover laughed and scooted closer to the wall. She was _still_ adamant that Greg would wait. He, however, had other plans. He stepped right in front of her and pulled her up, that serious, love-filled look creeping back into his eyes. Clover really loved that look. Instantly, a hand was placed on her hip while the other brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"Mm, Greg- wait." Her hand instinctively went to his hand, trying to halt any further actions.

"Clover, I can't." Greg stated, firmly, yet his smile told a completely different story.

"No, I mean...we can't do this in the bathroom..." Much as she wanted him to kiss her, she wasn't sure she wanted it to happen in her bathroom, filled with all manner of hideous things; three year old loofahs, several unusable toothbrushes, countless empty toothpaste packets, millions of bottles of shampoo, conditioner and gel, or mousse. Everything else that could be labelled embarrassing - or grotesque - was hidden away in a cabinet.

"Why not?"

"Because! There's germs...stuff..." She shivered as Greg's hands expertly made their way to her shoulder blades.

"I don't care about the germs...or the _stuff_." He genuinely didn't; all he cared about was Clover's lips and his lips getting together as soon as they possibly could.

"Then do it. Kiss me." Clover bit her lip as Greg took on an entirely different expression. It was one of desire, lust, all things unholy. Clover liked _that _look, too.

In what seemed like an eternity, Greg finally brought a hand up to her neck and leant down, capturing his lips with Clover's, connecting and entwining the two of them gently. Clover felt her mind go completely blank, her knees beginning to shake and her arms tangling themselves around Greg's neck while his hands moved to either side of her waist, tentatively. Electricity surged through her, rendering her thoroughly useless. She no longer gave a damn about being in the bathroom, nor about the fact that she was being pressed into the toilet roll holder. Everything felt great - _she_ felt fantastic. After a few seconds, Greg pulled his lips away from hers and swiftly shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Whoa." Was all he could think to say.

"Mm." Clover brought her index finger up to rub the corner of her mouth as she fought off a large smile.

"So...was I worth it?" Greg tilted his head to the side and leant against the wall.

Clover was shocked. Un-_believable_. How could he be so cocky after...well, after that monumentally epic kiss? "I...well...maybe." She grinned. "Was I?"

"Oh, yeah." Greg took her again by the waist and kissed her again before he led her out of the bathroom. "Now, I bet you're wishing you hadn't put that off for two weeks..."

And it was the truth.

**A/N: Pointless drabble, which I adore. Thanks to all who reviewed! I love feedback :D**

**I really do quite like this chapter, actually...and, seeing as it was my birthday yesterday, please could I have some reviews???**

**Have a great rest of the day,**

**Mary-Lou**

**PS: Only three days to the US Election :O **


End file.
